


capital letters implied

by InvadingThoughts



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bruises, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Santa, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Swearing, there's barely any angst; matt is just oblivious and ryan's insecure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 04:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16987677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvadingThoughts/pseuds/InvadingThoughts
Summary: In all honesty, Matt’s not really surprised. The first time Ryan took his mask off around him, it came almost as easy as breathing, to look and then just keep looking. To greedily drink up every expression, every twitch of his lips.Matt’s an easy man, he has a type and James Ryan Haywood is exactly his type.





	capital letters implied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rothecooldad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rothecooldad/gifts).



> For a Secret Santa over on the RT writers discord!! Ro wanted some fahc au and I added in a bit of soulmates because it worked too well for the crime boys. Hope you like it!!!
> 
> bruises, cuts, blisters, and such appear on your skin if your soulmate gets them and visa versa.

In all honesty, Matt’s not really surprised. The first time Ryan took his mask off around him, it came almost as easy as breathing, to look and then just  _keep looking_. To greedily drink up every expression, every twitch of his lips. Matt’s an easy man, he has a type and James Ryan Haywood is  _exactly_ his type.

What surprises him, though, is that now he finds himself  _expecting_ the slight clench of Ryan’s jaw when anyone makes a stupid comment, or, the way his mouth will curve into a cheeky grin when he’s feeling more kid than killer. He finds he likes that for all of Ryan’s brand, the man doesn’t even have a poker face; to dependant on the mask to hide his emotions.

And yeah, while Ryan  _may be_  his type, he’s also his colleague; and he’s also never once suggested, or hinted, or implied that he’s Matt’s soulmate. Never once offered to see if their bruises match up; if they bear each other's marks. So while he likes Ryan—as in, he  _like likes_  him, capital letters implied and all—he’s made peace with the fact that nothing’s going to happen.

So maybe that’s why it catches him off guard when Matt shows up to the penthouse and, for the first time in five months, Ryan’s got the mask on. Hiding his face from Matt, denying him that lazy grin he sometimes gets when he’s around; the overwhelming rush of possessiveness, and rejection, and the urge to just  _fucking rip that mask off so he can see Ryan’s face._

It’s like a goddamn punch to the gut.

 _Shit_.

Matt has to applaud himself though because he manages to keep himself from lunging at Ryan. He schools his features, holds his tongue and swallows the bastard feeling of hurt  _down_. Because, even though he can’t read Ryan’s face, he knows what a relaxed Ryan looks like and this  _isn’t_ it.

There’s a forced laziness to the way he holds himself, leaning against the kitchen counter with a diet coke clutched between his fingers, as though he’s forgotten he can’t drink with the mask on. Something’s got him on edge, body thrumming with tension, and Matt immediately tenses in turn.

It takes everything in Matt  _not_ to ask; to not just blurt out the questions dancing on his tongue. He knows better than that. If Ryan’s got the mask on ‘ _just because’_ , then he’s not going to take kindly to the third degree. So instead, he takes a bite of his breakfast doughnut, absently-mindedly scratching at the claw marks just below his eye and sets his bag against the leg of the kitchen table, where Jack’s sitting.

He deliberately keeps his gaze flat as he scans the bunch of papers and photo’s spread out across the table, as Jack sorts through them all with a laser-like focus. And it takes a minute, but the subject of the photos registers in his mind. They’re all of Michael, and they’re all focused on his bruises and injuries.

They’re focused on his soul marks.

“Michael’s fine, so’s Lindsay,” Jack offers, instantly knowing how to quell the rising tide of panic in him before Matt even asks. “Right now, we’re just occupying time until Gavin comes up with a location for our peeping Tom. I’m just making sure we didn’t miss  _anything_.”

Matt nods, instinctively glancing at Ryan through the corner of his eye.  _Huh_. At least he knows  _why_ Ryan’s so tense now; this whole soulmate business has got him on edge and of course, Matt understands. Knowing that they’ve unintentionally let some asshole put Lindsay in danger, that they’ve let them capture photos of Lindsay’s ties to Michael.

It makes his skin crawl.

And deep down, something in him reminds Matt that it could be him and  _his_ soulmate on display. That someone out there could be trying to piece together who Matt’s  _made for_ , just by the marks on his skin.

And, that they could find  _them_ before  _Matt_ does.

He shakes the thought out of his head as quickly as possible and looks back at Jack. “Should I go help Gavin?” he asks, wanting to do something— _anything_ —but it’s Ryan who answers him.

“Gavin’s got it covered,” he mumbles, and Matt wants to argue; even goes as far as to open his mouth, words on the tip of his tongue, but Jack takes the moment to glance up at him, gaze catching on his injury, before letting out a low hiss.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“Lost a fight with my cat,” he replies, suddenly feeling sorry for his soulmate. Very rarely does Matt’s soulmate give him a mark on his face, almost as if they  _know_ better to do that. Matt, on the other hand, is a criminal with a cat whose secretly trying to kill him; so it comes with the territory. “Sadly, I don’t have a cool mask to cover it up, like Mr Terrifying over there,” he jokes, tossing a brief look over towards Ryan.

He’s aiming for a low chuckle, or maybe a snort, but instead what he gets is Ryan tensing like Matt’s shoved a hot poker against his skin.

Matt doesn’t know what to make of it.

A sudden tsunami of emotions hit him all at once as he stares at Ryan, physically unable to make himself look away and Ryan stares right back at him, a brick wall. He doesn’t actually know what he’s looking for, eyes frantically darting around the mask, but then he realises the way his eyes keep drifting back to the skin around Ryan’s right eye.

No. No, Ryan would have  _said_ something; Matt would have  _noticed_. There’s no way he’s spent a year and a half with his soulmate right under his nose, right?

Jack seems to catch on to the unspoken tension that’s settled in the air around them all, and sighs. “I’m going to check on Gavin, try not to break anything,” they mutter, not bothering to stop and scoop up all the photos and Matt’s grateful. It feels like his whole body is humming, a year and five months of unresolved sexual tension,  _unresolved love_ , bubbling to the surface.

At the doorway, Jack hesitates for a moment, glancing between the two of them. “That includes each other,” they add, and then they’re gone and it’s just Matt and Ryan.

For a long moment, neither of them move. Neither of them tries to get the first word in. The kitchen remains silent, only broken by the sound of their breathing, until Matt shakes his head, a hiss of air escaping him.

“Okay, I’m driving myself insane. I keep thinking—it’s not possible, right? I mean, surely I would have—I mean, there’s no way you’re actually my soulmate, right? Please tell me if I’m just barking up the wrong tree, Ryan,” he says, and his stomach drops when Ryan flinches away, breaking eye contact.

_Oh c’mon._

He can see it now. Why it’s so easy to be around Ryan, even though he’s a bloody  _killer_. How Matt constantly finds himself gravitating towards him. The odd feeling of satisfaction and  _want_ , when he catches sight of a bruise on Ryan’s skin. The vicious feeling of  _hurt_ at arriving at the penthouse and not being able to see his soulmates face.

It’s so telling. It’s so obvious.

Matt is an  _idiot_.

Cause yeah, it’s all well and good to claim coincidence, to write off every identical mark as incidental—and it certainly doesn’t help that for his first year, Ryan never took the fucking mask off around him—but  _surely_ he should have noticed sooner. He never thought he was  _this_ dense.

The Vagabond is his soulmate.  _Ryan_ is his soulmate.

But Ryan already knew that, didn’t he?

“Take the mask off,” Matt asks, needing to know for sure. He wants to see the proof, head on, and know that Ryan’s his. He  _also_  wants to know why Ryan never told him that they’re soulmates, but the heavy possessive feeling in his chest demands validation and so does Matt.

So, soul mark first; interrogating Ryan second.

And for a moment, Matt can see Ryan’s refusal on the tip of his tongue, but then in an instant, he swallows it and hooks two fingers under the edge of his mask. He tugs it off, not bothering to fix his hair afterwards, and levels Matt with an unconvincing look of anger; one that’s undercut by the flicker of genuine worry in his eyes.

The urge to laugh hit’s Matt like a brick, but he smothers it down.  _Of course, they’re soulmates, Matt can read Ryan like a fucking book_. Plus, he’s got physical proof, what with the two red scratch marks decorating the skin under Ryan’s right eye. They’re there, they’re real and Matt loves them. He also wants to punch that dumb look off Ryan’s face.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he gripes, advancing on Ryan, whose eyes widen comically in response. “You knew, so don’t bother lying.”

“I’m the Vagabond,” he mutters, “nobody wants the Vagabond as a soulmate.” His words drenched in resigned sort of venom; as if it’s an argument he’s had with himself multiple times and it always ends in the same way.

Matt sighs. “Don’t be an idiot,” he spits and although Ryan flitches at his words, he still lets Matt close the distance between them. Slowly, giving him enough time for Ryan to pull away, Matt rests a palm on his chest. “I want you,” he chides, scratching a nail down the back of his hand. A dull pain shoots through him, but Matt just does it again. And again. And again. “And if you had’ve asked, you’d have known that.”

All at once, Ryan seems to deflate, sinking into Matt’s gravity like he’s the sun and Matt doesn’t bother hiding his grin. He waits for Ryan catch on, for him to put two and two together, and then there’s another hand beside his own, so they can admire the matching red scratches Matt’s scratched into their skin.

It’s like coming home, and Matt revels in the possessive feeling that curls in his gut. He dances in it; he considers pitching a fucking tent and just living it, happy to bask in its glow for the rest of his life.

Ryan has other ideas, however, drawing his mind back into the moment. “I’ll be honest,” he admits, almost sheepishly, curling his free hand around Matt’s waist and tugging him forward until they’re chest to chest, “this isn’t how I imagined this happening.”

Matt hums lowly in the back of his throat. “Dumbass,” he says, grinning when Ryan laughs and it’s enough of a distraction that he's not expecting it when Ryan leans in to kiss him.

It’s far from being a perfect kiss; it’s clumsy and rushed, and a tinge too desperate and starved. And at one point, Ryan accidentally knocks their teeth together, and Matt may or may not headbutt him back, but holy shit, it’s absolutely Matt’s favourite. And it only means their second is even better, and the third, and the fourth, as Ryan greedily swallows every sound he makes and Matt easily falls into the giddy feeling building in his chest.

And if he can’t stop running his fingers over the marks on his cheek for the rest of the day, then nobody—and certainly not Ryan—blames him for it. 


End file.
